Decision

I am awakened by the sound of a foghorn,
That treads like a fresh-water sprite over the whorls of puffed mist.
Like the faint throbbing of the lighthouse,
on a fire-ridden sea,
His whispers come to me.
I am awakened and I do not know,
which path I am to take in the blindness that sets in the spaces between the fog.
The hungry sound of the sea, from deep whithin its being,
scares the Albatross, and he runs from me. My bird of luck is gone.
Hanging on a fork in the road, as the grass turns to salt in my hands,
I hold on to the dirt. To watch it bend over in the frail gossamer skirt, of the wind,
Turning into dust. Dust, that dries with the beads of silver dew on the salty grass.
If I am to decide, the dust must never come back.
The air is crisp with salt, and the voice perhaps, is clearer today.
If I am to decide, the heart must not trace the footprints of the light,
As it slinks its way back to the Lighthouse in the fog.